Words Unread Redux
by Vader's Minion
Summary: HHr. AU. Post Hogwarts. Re-write of original. Hermione is engaged and Harry visits her flat one night after having too much to drink. While there he struggles with whether to tell her how he feels.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Harry Potter and am not making any money with this fic.

**A/N: **This is a re-write of Words Unread. I was going through the original to correct some errors and ended up re-writing a significant portion of the story. The tone ended up slightly different than the first, which I had not intended. My original plan had been to replace that story with this one, but because this one is so different, and because some people may prefer the first story, I am posting this one as it's own story.

Harry and Hermione both managed to get OOC but – considering what happened while they were officially in character – I'm not that upset about it.

I apologize for any and all spelling/grammatical mistakes. Ditto the Americanisms. I just can't seem to help them – but that's probably because I couldn't point one out if someone paid me to.

H/H Forever!!

**Words Unread II – Chapter 1**

I blame my current situation on the demon liquor. It is certainly what brought me here, to this place on life's journey where every slightly pathetic person must walk at least once. That place where common sense and higher brain functions can't exist. A place where the concepts of consequences and ramifications cannot be understood. To the addled brain of the thinker they are little more than nonsense words, useful only to babble at babies. Certainly they hold no interest for me, not in a brain currently swimming in alcohol.

Not quite forgotten, but willfully ignored, my right mind screams in protest for the pride and dignity that I have shed by coming here. It begs me to leave this place and preserve what little of those personal commodities I have left. But my wrong mind, the one currently in control, has no intention of listening. I have been primed by hours of overly sentimental introspection, prodded by the irrefutable knowledge that the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with is well on her way to marrying another man. Following a train of thought I am certain I will not agree with in the morning, I have come to give her an alternate choice. I will tell her of my feelings with the hope that, once she realizes her choices are not limited to one man, she might reconsider her present course of action.

But it is here that my courage starts to falter because most people would not consider this as me putting my best foot forward. And I really should be putting my best foot forward considering the circumstances. Unfortunately, that is not to be. Not if I have to convince Hermione of my devotion here and now, as I feel I must. In the first place, I have had more than my fair share of alcoholic beverages at a dingy, smelly pub. The stink of stale cigarette smoke clings to every part of my body and I release a small cloud of the smog with each lurching step I take. In the second place, I look a mess. Rain has drenched my clothes and tightened the curls nervous fingers have twirled in my hair into fuzzy knots. My trousers are splattered with mud and I know from a horrified glance in a mirror that my eyes are bloodshot. The effect with my green iris's is actually rather festive, but perhaps not appropriate for the occasion.

Wet, dirty, and drunk I stand at Hermione's door, looking not at all like a man come to profess his love should. I am the romantic anti-hero, really. I have neither wooed nor adored her like as a good lover should. I have dated other women when she was right in front of me and claimed her to be like a sister more than once. I have let familiarity blind me, damned her as a friend, and denied her appeal. But worst of all, I am late. Far too late. For now, when she is most likely well and truly beyond my reach, I have allowed myself recognize everything I am about to lose.

Hermione has been engaged for thirteen weeks. For thirteen weeks she's worn Viktor Krum's ring on her finger and every time I think of it, every time she mentions it in a letter, I want to scream, smash my hand into the nearest solid object, and destroy cities with a well placed curse. I've never actually done any of those things, but restraining myself has been a miracle of self-will. Instead I force myself to smile, to be happy for Hermione, and to write about the upcoming nuptials in language so flowery it would cause a lesser man to vomit. I do it because Hermione deserves those things, she needs them, and because if Krum is the man she wants then there is nothing I can do but accept it.

Until that last shot of Jack Daniel's I thought I'd be able to do it with mostly good grace and a minimum of disaster.

For the last three months I've avoided Hermione. Not completely, of course - I've written her letters, even spoken with her on the phone a few times to maintain appearances. But I've systematically avoided any place she may physically be. I've scheduled vacations, pretended to be swamped at work, even claimed to be on an expedition to find long-lost Potter relatives. It's been an exercise in self-preservation really, because I'm not sure what I may do or say if I were to actually see her. Insults to Krum's familial heritage, more than normal orneriness, and inappropriate confessions of love all come to mind. Up until about fifteen minutes ago, none of those options were at all acceptable as they would most likely result in varying degrees of damage to my friendship with Hermione.

But after hours at the Three Broomsticks, I'm no longer completely convinced my silence is beneficial to anyone. Vague memories of real or imagined events have made me question my good intentions. Didn't she always support me over Krum during the Triwizard tournament? Didn't she appear to enjoy kissing me more than little bit two years ago when we were caught – not quite accidentally, I'm ashamed to say – beneath the mistletoe? And I seem to recall some well aimed jibes at Ginny as recently as six months ago, when I was still dating her.

Based on all this, is there really any harm in telling her how I feel?

My hand hovers above her door, a half-curled fist of indecision. One inch, one sharp movement, and she will be right in front of me. I will see her face for the first time in more than three months. Her voice – prim and proper - will wash over me and the scent of her skin – ink and ancient books - will surround me. For one moment I will be in heaven. If I'm not careful my heart may explode from my chest, unable to cope with the ecstasy of it all.

But what if she tells me to go to the devil? What if she looks at me with nothing but disdain or, worse, pity in those dark brown eyes? The thought leaves me cold with fear.

I wish I'd accepted Ron's offer to hang out tonight. As the only person I'd dared breathe a word about my feeling for Hermione to, he would have been able to tell me what a stupid idea this was. He even might have been able to convince me not to go through with this mad plan. Or, if not, he's more than friend enough to petrify me for my own good. He could have floated me back home, thrown a blanket over my immobile form, and left me to sober up.

But, no. I'd decided I'd rather drink alone. Never a good idea. Usually a very bad idea, actually. Especially when one is already wallowing in self-pitying despair.

I flatten my hand against Hermione's painted metal door and lean my weight against it. By slow degrees my head falls forward until my forehead is pressed against the smooth surface, the coolness a relief to my overly warm skin. The fire that had burned in my gut and strengthened my will when I first arrived has been extinguished. Surprisingly, and probably for the best, I am bombarded by second thoughts.

Hermione doesn't care for me. If she did she would have said something by now. Sixteen years is certainly long enough to build up the courage. Anyone else would know what to make of this situation.

But.

But what if she thinks that same thing about me? What if we both love each other but neither of us ever has the courage to say anything? Hermione's never lacked for courage, though, has she? And she seems perfectly happy with Krum. But what if she'd rather be perfectly happy with me? The questions seem endless.

"Who's there?" A voice thick with sleep, but unmistakably Hermione's, jerks me from my thoughts. I take a stumbling step backward and stare incredulously at the door. How did she know I was there? Has she been watching me? Does she know how long I've been here? The thought is more than faintly humiliating.

That's when I become aware of the dull pain in my forehead. I put a hand across the throbbing spot and stifle a groan. Apparently I'd been pounding it rhythmically – and apparently loud enough to rouse Hermione – against the door.

"Who's there?" she repeats, this time her voice is edged with annoyance.

"It's me. It's Harry," I answer her hastily. The last night I need is Hermione thinking I'm some sort of prowler and cursing me as a precaution.

The door flings open and Hermione is there. Her eyes are pink and puffy and they blink at me in sleepy confusion. She is wearing a well-worn robe of pale blue that is wrapped tightly around her waist with a knotted sash. She must have been sleeping on her couch because a mesh pattern is imprinted in her cheek and, by the look of her hair, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd recently stuck her finger in an electrical socket. The overall effect is predictably devastating and it's almost impossible to control myself. The urge to put my hands in her hair is overwhelming. I wonder if it will feel as as soft as it looks and whether the curls close to her head will be warm from sleep.

Thankfully, Hermione asks me a question and forces me to speak. Otherwise, I may still be staring at her.

"Harry, what on earth are you doing here? Are you alright?" She sounds confused, but happy too. If she were more awake I'm sure she'd be mostly happy so I allow myself to be wildly pleased.

"I'm fine. I just felt like visiting," I lie.

"You just felt like visiting? After midnight?" She opens her mouth to say something else and then looks hard at my face. Without an attempt to hide what she's doing, Hermione leans forward and sniffs the air around my mouth. "Are you drunk?"

"Yes." There is no reason to lie, so I don't. Hermione, being the bright witch she is, would figure it out anyway.

Hermione's eyes slowly take in the state of my clothes, my hair, and the overall haggardness of my appearance. Concern tugs at one corner of her mouth.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Positive," I assure her. To prove the truth of my words I smile winningly and move to rest my hand on the door jam. Possibly because I'm drunk, possibly because I'm not looking, the only thing I manage to rest my hand against is thin air. For half a second I struggle valiantly to remain upright but too much of my weight has shifted. With a noise too embarrassing to describe, I pitch forward.

Hermione, bless her, makes a grab for my shoulders but I rocket past her. Somehow she does manage to get an arm around me but the result is basically a headlock. A surprised grunt gurgles from my throat as my head is jerked backward by Hermione's grip. I only have time to clutch at Hermione's elbow before both of us slam to the floor. Hermione, maneuvering herself advantageously, lands on top of me and the force of impact rockets the air from my lungs. I want to double up in pain but the logistics of my position, Hermione on my back, and her arm still wrapped securely around my throat, make it impossible. All I can do is close my eyes in an agony of pain and wheeze.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione jumps to her feet and scurries forward to kneel at my head. "I'm so sorry! Nothing feels broken, does it?"

I shake my head, unable to say a word without any breath in my body. One of Hermione's hands rests on my back and for a few minutes she doesn't speak, presumably waiting for me to catch my breath. Getting the wind knocked out of me has always been one of my least favorite experiences. Right up there with having all the bones in my arm disappear.

But as the pain and discomfort recedes, I realize I am in a kind of heaven. Or hell, I suppose. Depending whether I'm feeling glass half full or glass half empty a strong argument could be made for either location based on the current facts. But with Hermione's attention focused solely on me, her voice quietly murmuring my name, and her hand touching me, I'm not inclined to be too upset.

"You're not going to fall asleep on me, are you?" Hermione's voice is unexpectedly close to my ear and I start, surprised to realize I had begun to do just that.

"No." I shake my head and start to sit up.

"Here, let me help you." Hermione takes hold of one of my arms and gently helps me to a sitting position. "Do you want me to help you into the kitchen?"

"That might be best, at the moment." With Hermione's help I struggle to my feet. I sling an arm across her shoulders, probably leaning more of my weight on her than I have to, and together we make our way into the kitchen.

Based on my clumsiness, I'm definitely more inebriated than I thought. The room is spinning slightly and a queasy feeling is building in my stomach. I begin to marvel that I made it to Hermione's in one piece.

"You smell like a pub, Harry." Hermione settles me in a chair with a groan. "And you're a lot heavier than you used to be."

Heavier? I don't know whether to be offended so I say nothing, content instead to throw a mock glare in Hermione's direction. She probably doesn't mean anything by it. Nonetheless disturbed, I poke a finger in my stomach to assess the situation. Nothing too alarming.

A glass of water appears on the table in front of me. "Drink up," Hermione orders. "I'll be back, I left my wand at the door."

I gulp the water greedily, and consider how best to extricate myself from this situation without losing any more face. I decided almost as soon as Hermione opened her door that I can't tell her about my feelings. The probability of success seems far too low and I am fairly certain Hermione will not be flattered by my drunken attentions. So, I have to leave. The odds of Hermione just letting me walk out the door in my condition are not good. But the odds of me not saying something that would be better taken to the grave are even worse. And made exponentially so the longer I stay in Hermione's den.

By the time I finish the water Hermione is back in the kitchen, her wand shoved securely in the sash at her waist. Without asking, she takes the glass from my hand and fills it again, getting one for herself as well.

"It feels like I haven't seen you in ages, Harry." Hermione sets the glass in front of me. Condensation formed on the outside drips down the sides and drops onto the table. I pretend to be fascinated by it. "What are you really doing here?"

I glance up to meet Hermione's gaze and instantly know it is a mistake. Hermione's eyes are like lasers, penetrating my brain, and I know I should look away but it is impossible. She has always had the unsettling ability to know what I am thinking and she knows it without having to probe my mind with magic. That she might divine my most forbidden thoughts just by looking at me is a very real fear.

"Were you asleep?" I ask, hoping to direct the conversation in another direction.

Hermione takes the bait easily. "Yes. And very soundly, thank you very much."

"On the couch, I imagine."

She smiles in surprise. "How did you know."

I gesture toward her face. "Your cheek. I looks like a road map."

Hermione rubs hard at her cheek and I think she might be a little embarrassed. "No, don't." I wave my hands. "It looks great."

"Drink your water, Harry."

I chuckle and raise the glass to my lips. This is what I can't sacrifice, I think. Her friendship, the camaraderie. If I make things awkward between us then there would be no more _this_. No more easy friendship, no more conversations with just the two of us in an empty kitchen. The void in my life would be unspeakably huge.

But other fears quickly intrude. Will I have to share these moments of conversation with Krum? Will Hermione and I ever be alone again? In a few months he will be her husband. Everywhere Hermione goes he will be there, too. Like a parasite. A gigantic one that cannot legally be exterminated. It is a horrendous thought, made more so by a sudden paranoia.

"I didn't wake Krum, too, did I?"

I don't know what devil made me ask it. If Krum is waiting for Hermione in her bedroom I have no wish to know it. And if he is spending his night somewhere it will be very cold comfort. They will still be engaged, Hermione will still belong to another man.

"No." Hermione smiles softly and the water in my stomach begins to bubble. "He's visiting family in Bulgaria this week."

I nod, sorry I asked because her answer implies that he does spend his nights here. With her. In her bed, beneath her sheets, with her body curled next to his. It is information I've always avoided knowing about Hermione's love life. At first because I didn't care, then because I never thought her boyfriends were the long-haul type, and most recently because I didn't want to know. I still don't want to know and curse my damnable mouth.

Because, now, Hermione being with Krum is all I can think about. Visuals run rampant through my brain as my tortured inner self screams in silent agony and claws helplessly at my overactive inner eye. I see the brute sleeping with her, greeting her as she comes out of the shower, making love to her in every room. Probably even on this kitchen table. Unconsciously my hand grips the table's edge in a white-knuckle grip. Is it sturdy enough? Would Krum be that adventurous? He might not have a choice if Hermione decided – I groan and drop my head into my hands. I am in a very bad place right now and it will only get worse if I let it continue. It's time for me to leave. Time for me to stop living in denial, forget all my half-formed hopes that Hermione might secretly care for me and move on. Or, at the very least, move away from this thrice-cursed table.

Abruptly I push myself to my feet. The movement is a little too sudden and I wobble on my feet. Across the table Hermione jerks back in surprise, slopping water on her robe.

"Harry?"

"I have to go," I tell her. I smile and pray to whatever supreme being may be listening that I don't sound as desperate as I feel.

Hermione puts on her McGonagall face and shakes her head. "You're in no condition to be going anywhere."

"I'm fine." I prove it by walking a straight line, each step slow and deliberate, to the kitchen sink. I set my glass beside it without accident and smile charmingly at my own success. Sober is as sober does.

"Right." I'm not looking at Hermione but I can hear the roll in her eyes.

"Look, Hermione, I'm sorry for dropping in like this." I sidle toward the entryway without meeting Hermione's eyes. It's like playing Russian Roulette. "But I think it's best if I get a cab."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous. In your condition I don't trust you enough to give the correct address." She grabs my shoulder and tries to steer me toward her couch.

I plant my feet firmly and shake my head.

"Thank you, but no." My agitation is growing worse. Not only have I had clear and unwanted visions of Hermione having sex with Krum in the kitchen, now I have to do everything in my power to ignore the thought of them on the couch she wants me to sleep on.

"Harry -"

"Hermione." My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. "I will be fine. I know my own name." I pause to consider. "I know where I live, and I am very good at defending myself."

Hermione does not look convinced.

"Besides, I thought you were sleeping on that couch."

Hermione doesn't appreciate my gently teasing tone. She glares at me, shakes her head, then stomps toward the door. She throws it open and looks pointedly at the hallway. "Fine. Go off in your condition. But don't come looking for sympathy from me if you end up in Knockturn Alley and find yourself chained up in a hag's den for the next six years."

I burst out laughing. I can't help it, the idea is too absurd. If I were more myself I might have been able to squelch the urge but tonight I have no chance. I clutch one hand against my stomach and put the other on Hermione's shoulder to keep myself upright. Surprisingly she doesn't shrug me off or throw me to the floor so I indulge my amusement and laugh until I can't anymore. She lets me laugh so long that I think maybe she sees the humor in it, too. But I'm disabused of that notion the second I can focus on her through the tears in my eyes. She is seething. Whoops. Instantly I try to make amends.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I shouldn't have laughed, I know you're just looking out for me." And I mean what I say.

"Well, I'd be a sight better at it if you'd ever actually let me look out for you." She crosses her hands over her chest and glares at me accusingly.

"I know." True, drunken remorse floods me. I sigh and grab one of her hands. It takes some effort to get her to actually uncross her arms, but eventually she relents. I give her hand a tentative squeeze and look as earnest as I can in my condition. "I don't like it when you're mad at me, Hermione. Will it help if I apologize some more? I'm sorry for coming here, I'm sorry for waking you up, and I'm sorry for acting like a complete prat." I hunch my shoulders up around my neck and stare down at the floor. "I don't have an excuse except...except I'm going through a rough patch right now and I'm not handling it very well."

The anger draining from Hermione's body is a physical sensation. Her shoulders lose their rigidity and I feel her fingers relax and actually curl around my own. I look up into her face. Concern – mingled with a good dose of curiosity – rolls off her and I am reminded how much of a better friend she has always been to me than I have ever been to her. That alone is reason enough for me to walk out of her flat and never say a word about my feelings for her ever again. The less trouble I can cause for her the better.

"I was worried something was wrong." Hermione puts her other hand on my shoulder. "You've been acting strangely for months."

There is relief in her voice, like she's happy I've finally admitted my recent derangement out loud. It's a little insulting because up until three seconds ago I was sure I'd managed to act at least as normally as I usually do. But leave it to Hermione to figure out there was something not quite right with me. If it had been a paying job, Hermione could easily make a living off interpreting my moods.

"I know. I've been a prize idiot of late." I shrug and squeeze her hand. I can't seem to stop doing it. "It'll go away eventually."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

They are the words I have been dreading. I knew she was going to offer, as soon as I crumbled and admitted that something was bothering me the question became inevitable.

"No, no. Definitely not," I tell her, but I smile to take any sting from the words. Conspiratorially I lean toward her. "It's a guy thing."

"A guy thing?" She has rarely sounded more skeptical. "Is that why you came to _my_ flat drunk out of your gourd? Because you'd rather talk to Ron about whatever it is that's bothering you?"

Erm. Leave it to Hermione to not let the subject drop after I hint that it's something of an uncomfortable nature.

"Well, you admit I'm rather inebriated." I poke her nose with my finger to make sure she remembers. "Using logic to explain my actions is probably a hopeless business."

"Logic can explain anything, Harry. Even you."

I don't like the sound of that so I lurch forward and wrap Hermione in what I hope she takes for an extremely drunken bear hug and not a diversionary tactic. She makes a squeaking noise and I give her an extra squeeze. Ignoring the shame of it, I even take the opportunity to press my nose into her hair and inhale the scent of her. I hope she doesn't notice.

"Goodnight, Hermione," I say when I pull back. "I hope you don't have any trouble falling back to sleep."

Hermione smiles and shakes her head. Clearly she doesn't know whether to feel exasperated or amused, or if some combination thereof is more appropriate. I take her hand and press a hard kiss to her knuckles in what is probably no where near the gallant gesture I imagine it to be. But I am sure she is convinced, to a relatively certain degree, that my higher brain function is capable enough to find my way home. And so I am free to leave her flat without further protest.

I stride into the hall like a man without a concern in the world. I congratulate myself on managing to extricate myself from a potentially lethal situation without losing too much face, destroying my friendship with Hermione, or putting myself in a life threatening position. Hermione is none the wiser about my feelings, my secret is safe from all but my loyal friend Ron, and Hermione is still engaged to her fiancé. And he, on the plus side, has no reason to hunt me down.

All in all a very successful evening. I could not have expected better. Except that I am still very much in love with Hermione.

My footsteps slow.

Perhaps I have been too hasty. There is no reason to think that Hermione cannot care for me if given the opportunity. I am reasonably attractive, have a good job, and most people think I'm pleasant. Being my best friend, Hermione must find my company at least as enjoyable as Ron's. And she dated him. Krum may be romantic, but I've seen no evidence of a sense of humor. Hermione definitely appreciates a good joke now and again. Does she really want to marry a man who doesn't make her laugh?

I stop my retreat altogether and put a finger to my lips.

Out of Hermione's calming influence the alcohol has begun to bend my mind to it's will once again. Years and years of heartache stretch out before me, my life a barren wasteland all because I was too much of a coward to give Hermione the option to choose. If she knew that I loved her maybe she would tell Krum to pack his bags and move back to Bulgaria. Maybe she would decide that Granger-Potter sounds infinitely more pleasant than Granger-Krum. And, perhaps, she would realize that a life with Harry Potter would at least be as attractive as a life with the dullard Viktor Krum.

Perhaps I am being a bit harsh on Hermione current flame, but I'm in no mood to admit that Krum may have good qualities. That he may have more good qualities than myself is outside the realm of possibility. Determined, I whirl on my heel – as well as I am able – and stomp back down the hall to Hermione's door. Bursting with purpose I rap firmly on her door and stand with my back straight and my chest sticking out.

When Hermione's head pokes out in the hall I launch into my diatribe before she can get a word in.

"You were right, Hermione. As usual. I have a problem and you are the person I want – need – to talk to." I lick my lips and hurry on. "You see, I realized something, years and years ago. Or maybe it was recently. I've probably always known it and, I don't know why, but I pretended it wasn't true. I ignored it and put it off until – until right this minute, really." I stop to take a breath and wipe a hand across my suddenly damp forehead. "I'll be the first to admit that a certain amount of blindness has ruled my life. Some of it's been willful, I suppose. Some of it's been a result of circumstances. But this -" I shake my head. "This..."

I look up at the ceiling, searching for a way to make her understand what must seem to her like my sudden feelings. I need to get this right.

"It's like a book, really." Yes, that will do. I nod firmly and look back to Hermione.

She is staring at me wide-eyed, her head still poking out from behind the door. She looks like someone who has no idea what is going on – but as I've never seen quite that expression on Hermione's face I'm not confident enough to say for certain that's what it is. But considering the speed of my speech and that I myself have little idea of where I'm going with this, I think a strong argument can be made in favor of the supposition.

"A book?" she asks, her brow furrowed.

"Yes, a book."

She's still confused but at least more intrigued than she was a mere moment ago. I brace myself, take a deep breath, and plunge recklessly ahead.

"I haven't read many books, Hermione, and I don't always notice things. But there was one book, a book that's been on my shelf for years and for a long time I thought I'd read it cover to cover."

"Harry..."

"I'd read it so often I was sure I had every word memorized. Then one day I woke up and realized there were pages, hundreds of pages, I'd never seen before. But before I got the chance to read it again, and I did want to read it again, I lost it. When I wasn't looking it got away from me and now it belongs to someone else. Someone who will be able to read those pages and memorize all the words I'll never see." The words spill out of me faster than I can say them clearly. "And I'll admit it makes me jealous, and angry, and...and empty. And I don't know how to stop feeling this way. I don't think I can."

I don't think I am making much sense and take a deep breath to clarify myself when I look at Hermione, really look at her. If I thought I'd need to expound upon my analogy I was wrong. Completely so. Hermione, brightest witch of our age, understood every word perfectly. Unfortunately that doesn't mean it's a good thing. She looks straight into my unblinking eyes. Her brow is furrowed and her mouth works like she wants to say something, but speech is temporarily beyond her power.

I wait until she presses a hand to her forehead and shakes her head, then I admit the truth. There is no happiness in her expression, no dawning of cautious hope. She is flabbergasted, probably soon to be horrified but she hasn't made it to that stage just yet. The enormity of my mistake, my foolish selfishness, is instantly apparent. Hermione's never entertained any romantic thoughts about me, she's never secretly wished we could be together. I have disrupted her happy existence with an unwelcome declaration, pitted her piece of mind against my pathetic desires and made myself the villain of the piece. Two things occur to me in that split second: my conceit apparently knows no bounds and, par for the course, Krum deserves Hermione far more than I ever could.

Failure and humiliation eminent, I do the only thing I can do. I make a bold, reckless statement and flee like a coward.

"I came here tonight to tell you I was leaving. I don't know where I'm going or for how long, but I can't be here for what comes next. I wish I was a better friend to you Hermione, Merlin knows you deserve it. I'm sorry."

I don't give Hermione the chance to say a word. Despite her rejection, anger, and discomfort all being forgone conclusions, I don't want to witness any of them. I have some unexpectedly urgent packing to do. Drunk as I am, I still have more control over my magic than most wizards do sober so, despite the danger, I disapparate. The last thing I see is Hermione's mouth forming my name.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I am hoping against hope to have the next and final chapter posted in a week or so. It will likely be fairly short as it has one purpose and one purpose only. As always, many apologies for the spelling/grammatical mistakes.

**Words Unread II – Chapter 2**

"You what?"

"I told Hermione."

Pause. "What did you tell her, exactly?"

A second, longer pause. "My feelings."

"What? Speak up, Harry."

"I – I told her that I couldn't watch her marry Krum."

"Wow. Alright. And?"

"And nothing. I came home and called you."

"You just _left_ her?"

"Yeah. Well, I told her I was going away for a while. Then I left."

"And what did she say? You did give her a chance to say something, didn't you?"

A third pause, longer than the first two combined. "No, not really."

"Sweet Merlin."

"It wasn't like there was anything she _needed_ to say. Besides telling me off, anyway. I knew that part already."

"Not anything for her to say?"

"Ron -"

"She is going to kill you."

"I know."

"Curse you to smithereens."

"Odds are."

"There won't be anything left of you."

"I'm aware of that, thank you."

Ron claps a hand to his face and makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He shakes his head and stares at me between the gaps in his fingers. His eyes brim with pity, or maybe it's horror. Both are apt for the occasion as I am a dead man walking. I just wish Ron wouldn't make my fate so obvious. A little optimism in the face of a crisis would be nice.

I rock backward, my balance is still not the best, and a belch sneaks out. It reeks of booze and leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth, across from me Ron makes a face and waves a hand in front of his nose. On reflex I put a hand to my stomach and stifle a groan. Things are not going well in there. If Ron is very unlucky my evening's binge will end up on his shoes. The histrionics would be award worthy but my head can't take it.

"Listen, Ron," I take a lurching step toward my bedroom, "do you mind if we head in there?"

I don't wait for Ron to answer, if I'm going to vomit I want a change of clothes nearby. Eyes half-closed I stumble toward my bedroom, arms limply outstretched to ward off potentially attacking furniture. Proving my problem with entryways at Hermione's wasn't a fluke, I manage to knock my shoulder against the door jam and careen toward the center of the room. I fight to keep my feet beneath me but two quick steps later my legs tangle and I go down with the speed of a bullet. Under normal circumstances I'm sure my instinct would have been to duck and roll, curl one way or the other and hit the ground in such a way that the impact is partially absorbed and redistributed throughout my body. But my reflexes are gone, swept away by a river of alcohol. Missing and presumed dead.

My forehead hits first and the rest of me just sort of skids in, the skin of my cheek making a horrific squeaking noise as it slides across the wood floor. My glasses crunch and bite into my face. I would grimace but I am quickly losing the will to move. The thought of passing out has never been so attractive.

"Harry!"

Ron, sounding worried, runs to my rescue. He grabs my shoulders and rolls me over, presumably to look at the damage I have done to my face. Or to make sure I am still breathing. He leans so close his breath ruffles the hair that has fallen across my head. My glasses have ended up perched on my chin so at least I am spared the punishment of seeing him clearly. Not that he's bad looking. He's actually quite handsome, in a Weasley kind of way. It's just that he's no Hermione and, if forced to choose, I'd much rather have her face hovering an inch above mine.

"You are a wreck. I can't believe you didn't splinch yourself."

I don't answer but silently I agree with him. Instead I hold my glasses in front of my face and squint up at the twisted frames. There aren't many good things that have come of this evening, but at least I waited until Hermione couldn't see me before engaging in this little performance. Small favors, I suppose. Though things can get worse, much worse, if she decides to follow me home. I'm not capable of dealing with that situation at the moment and probably won't be for hours.

If ever.

The glasses slip from my shaking fingers and fall to my chest. I have no desire to pick them up again. A wave of fatigue, instant and powerful, rolls over me and drains the rest of my faded energy. I look toward the red and pink blob that is Ron and secure my glasses against my chest with a limp hand.

"I want to go to bed." My voice is slurred and thick.

Ron leans back. "But I just got here."

"I need to sleep." I don't think the words are intelligible but I don't have the strength to repeat myself.

"You're the one who woke me up in the middle of the night!"

I close my eyes. Poor Ron. I feel bad for him, I really do. "Shh. Sleep." I'm not sure I even form the words, but I think I paw at his arm in a clumsy attempt to soothe his temper. Above me Ron makes a sound of pure disgust and struggles to his feet. I never hear him leave the room.

_**Six Hours Later**_

"How are you feeling?" Ron looks up from shoveling what appears to be an entire pancake into his mouth. A bit of it sticks to his cheek, then turns end over end to wobble from his chin. One side of his face is pouched like that of a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter and he can't close his mouth all the way.

"Disgusted," I answer honestly. I have been watching this spectacle for the last ten minutes. I'm fairly certain this is his twisted revenge, his way of getting back at me for insisting he visit during the dead of night and then passing out after his arrival. His plate is heaped with food and my stomach roils every time he takes a bite. One can argue it would be simple to leave the kitchen and escape the sight, but the smell is everywhere – and that's just as bad. Plus, I simply have no desire to move. The best I can do is throw myself off the chair and lay on the kitchen floor. The cool tile would probably be soothing but I have no doubt Ron would move his plate to the floor and eat beside me if I did that.

Our friendship has its peculiarities.

"Be serious, Harry," Ron says around a mouthful of mush.

I am. "I feel like I slept on a wooden floor," I mumble, narrowing my eyes at Ron. Any of my other friends would have dragged me to a bed – or a couch at the least. Maybe covered me with a blanket, put a pillow beneath my head. But not Ron. He let me sleep where I passed out. I'm not sure if he thought I deserved it or if he just didn't give a second thought to where I slept. Either is a possibility with Ron and therefore the issue probably isn't worth stewing over. He did manage to fix my glasses and had them resting beside my head when I woke up this morning. A kind gesture considering all I put him through last night.

"I can't help you with that," Ron says, this time around a mouthful of bacon. He gestures to the glass in front of me with his fork. "But that will help with the hangover."

I look at the drink and try not to lean back. It is the color and consistency as mud. Only thicker and more green. And it gurgles. "I don't have a hangover."

"You look like death," Ron says, ever complimentary. "I've never seen you this pale, and that's saying something."

"I haven't been outside much lately."

"It's one of mum's recipes."

That does not make it more appealing. I take the glass and shake it. It barely moves. "Are you sure I don't need a knife and fork for this?"

"So it's a little chewy. You're being a baby."

Suspicion of an unknown bubbling brew is hardly being a baby, in my opinion. It's more like conscientious self-preservation. I look at Ron just in time to see him shove another forkful into his mouth. I grit my teeth and wait in dread as my stomach rolls again. If he's not going to stop eating, and if I'm not going to move, something will have to be done.

I tighten my hand around the glass and decide the concoction can't taste as bad as it looks – or at least not as bad as a Polyjuice potion. Plugging my nose, I scrunch my face, put the rim of the glass to my lips, and tilt my head back. The semi-liquid seeps into my mouth with all the speed of a lame slug. It bubbles along my tongue and even hops around my stomach after I swallow. Across the table, Ron offers friendly encouragement in between barks of laughter.

It takes an eternity to empty the glass and I have to brace myself against the table and gag over the side when I am done. Miraculously nothing comes out.

"That was terrible." I reach for a napkin and scrape it across my tongue.

Ron only smiles. Clearly I used up my sympathy quotient yesterday.

After a few more unpleasant hops around my stomach, the concoction takes effect. The pain in my head ebbs away and my sour stomach is instantly soothed. The sudden transition between relative agony and normality is unbelievable. I stare down at the empty glass in wonder. It is truly a miracle drink. I will have to ask Ron for the recipe. But I'll wait until he's in a better mood and won't throw my initial disgust back in my face.

Which means I will probably end up asking Mrs. Weasley.

The silence between Ron and I stretches and I stew in it while Ron finishes his breakfast. Since waking up I have been consciously avoiding any and all thoughts of Hermione and what I said to her last night. If the hangover was good for one thing, it was distracting my emotional misery with a physical one. But now – unbelievably – I no longer feel as if fanged creatures are trying to gnaw their way out of my stomach and head, respectively. And with that relief comes a new mental focus. Namely, my supreme idiocy.

For the first time in my life I wish I couldn't remember what I'd done the night before. I'm not proud of the wish, but there it is. I am that embarrassed, ashamed, and terrified by what I did. Of course, even if I didn't remember, my happy bubble of make-believe would not last. Eventually Hermione would storm in like a fire-breathing dragon and attack my castle of ignorance where it floated on clouds of innocent bliss. I would end up just as ashamed as I am now. Just as embarrassed and horrified. But at least I would have been spared all but the most relevant details. I wouldn't have to remember my speech and listen to it over and over inside my head. I wouldn't have to see Hermione's non-reaction every time I closed my eyes.

I glance at the clock above the sink. It is almost nine o'clock, that makes it eight hours since I left Hermione's flat. A lot of things can happen in eight hours. Almost nothing can happen in that time, too. I wonder what's closer to the truth in this case. Surely Hermione has not been idle in the intervening time. Did she go back to bed? Did she toss and turn or pace around her flat? Maybe she fantasized about what curses she will use the next time she sees me. Why didn't she follow me? Has she told Krum? What is she thinking right now? How long will it take me to pack a suitcase and take off?

I think my headache is coming back.

Across the table, Ron clears his throat. I look at him, a little surprised. For a moment I forgot he was even in the room.

"Suppose you want to talk about what happened last night?"

"No." I drop my head forward and clench a hand in my hair. What happened last night is the one thing I never want to talk about ever again. Voldemort is a more pleasant topic. "Not especially. In fact, I actually have some packing to do."

It was a rash promise but one I intend to keep. What I said last night is true, I don't want to watch Hermione marry another man. Leaving is the best way I know to make this whole situation easier on myself. Not easy, but easier. But it goes both ways. Hermione shouldn't have to worry about me proclaiming myself at any given moment. Less than twenty-four hours ago the thought probably never crossed her mind. Now it is just another detail she has to deal with. It doesn't matter that I have no intention of breathing a word about my feelings ever again. I've already proven myself to be a loose canon, it's too late to plead good intentions. From now on Hermione will look at me and see a loaded gun, one pull of the trigger away from disaster.

And that doesn't begin to cover the awkwardness of the situation. I'll be lucky if Hermione ever wants to see me again. Though, truth be told, I'm not so sure I want to see her. At least not while I'm the pathetic, broken-hearted ex-best friend. The man hopelessly in love with the happily married woman. I don't want to see the pity in her eyes. Because she'll know. Even if I try to hide it, even if I date a hundred women, she'll know the truth.

The only problem is, I don't see my feelings ever going away. I don't see how I can ever be anything but in love with Hermione.

And, even with her rejection, I don't think I would make it different if I could.

"Are you still going on about that?"

"About what?" Caught up in my inner-turmoil I've lost the thread of the conversation.

"About leaving." Ron wipes his mouth with a napkin and shoves his plate toward center of the table. "That's a bit melodramatic, Harry. Even for you."

"Melodramatic? Me?" I gape at him. "I showed up at Hermione's flat last night and told her I loved her. She is engaged to Viktor Krum. She in no way indicated she returns my feelings. I will be forced to watch the woman I love marry another man. And you're the one who said she will curse me to pieces over this. How is leaving melodramatic again?"

"Listen Harry, this is not a big deal. Guys confess their love to engaged women all the time. A woman would probably be offended if some heartbroken bastard didn't come out of the woodwork."

"Really? How many heartbroken bastards declared their love for Luna after you proposed? And, of those, how many were supposed to be her best friend?"

Ron smiles and shakes his head. I want to punch him in the teeth.

"You're panicking, Harry, and obviously not thinking straight."

"No." I shake my head. "Yesterday I wasn't thinking straight. " My thought process was corrupted by alcohol and an aching heart. "_That _was panic." Because I don't want Hermione to marry anyone but me. Stupidly don't want her to love anyone more than me. "This," I say, flattening both hands on my chest, "is the natural and logical result of that panic."

Ron refuses to be ruffled. "It could be worse is all I'm saying."

"You mean I could have waited to abduct her at the wedding?" I ask sarcastically.

"No. I mean this was something you needed to do. Face it, Harry. You've had feelings for Hermione a while, right? It's why you broke up with Ginny. I mean, it's been painfully obvious, hasn't it?"

"I don't know," I mumble without meeting Ron's eyes. "Has it?"

"Of course things might have been easier if you'd managed to tell Hermione how you feel _before_ she started dating Krum."

Considering I was still clinging to my relationship with Ginny when Krum reemerged as a romantic candidate for Hermione, that happy circumstance would have been unlikely. "Sure you weren't supposed to be in Ravenclaw, Ron?"

Amazingly, Ron takes the higher road and ignores me. It just proves what a sad state he thinks I'm in.

"But better to do it now than when she's married. Or after a couple of kids. Or, worse yet, on your death bed. At least this way you've given yourself a fighting chance."

A fighting chance? Does he really think I have that?

"It's no good Ron. If you had seen Hermione's face...well, you'd know what I know."

"From what I heard you didn't see Hermione's face, either."

Mrs. Weasley's mystery concoction freezes in my stomach and I raise wide eyes to Ron's face. He leans back in the chair, his hands nonchalantly clasped on his stomach, but there is a knowing smile on his face. I lurch to my feet and lean across the table.

"What are you talking about?" My voice is a terrified whisper.

Ron shrugs. "Hermione showed up last night. About ten minutes after you passed out."

"Hermione showed up? Here?" I swallow. Optimistic thoughts plant themselves in my brain and germinate. I put a shaking hand to my face. "And I'm still alive," I say in wonder.

"Probably only because you were passed out when she got here," Ron admits. "She came in blazing."

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I want to sound accusing but secretly I am glad he didn't. Hermione can overpower me with her temper on most days, last night there would have been no contest.

"We tried. You were dead to the world. Hermione was set on it but I convinced her it would be useless trying to talk to you." Ron levels me with a gaze that says I can thank him later. There are days he can see through me almost as easily as Hermione.

I fall back into my chair and run a hand through my hair. Hermione was here. She followed me, after all. Is it wrong to feel thrilled? I wonder what she would have said. Probably nothing good but that doesn't stop the fragile wings of hope from unfurling inside me. Maybe my friendship with Hermione isn't falling apart after all. Maybe I won't have to move to Siberia for the next ten years. Maybe I still have a chance of becoming the happiest man alive. So much optimism is making me light headed.

"So you two talked?" I turn on Ron, my only current source of information.

"Yeah."

"Well," I demand when Ron shows no interest in continuing. "What did she say?"

"Not much," Ron shrugs. At his noncommittal gesture my hope breaks a wing and plummets to earth. "She told me her side of the story." He leans forward, like he wants to tell me a secret, and rests both forearms on the table. I stretch toward him. "So, you really called her a book then?"

Great. My face is suddenly on fire.

"Leave it alone, Ron," I say angrily and pull away from him. I don't need him to ask me what I said to Hermione, I need him to tell me what Hermione said to him. About me.

That and I wish Hermione hadn't gone into quite that much detail with our mutual best friend. Ron ranks just below Draco Malfoy on the list of people I would least like to have know about the book analogy I used. Not that the comparison didn't fit. I was – and still am – quite pleased with myself on that one. But I know without doubt that Ron will use it against me for the rest of my natural life. And likely beyond.

"No, it's quite good, Harry. And perfect for Hermione, actually." Ron laughs and the devil is in his eyes. I am not fooled by his compliments. "Do you suppose Hermione's ever thought of you as a broom?"

"Ron." I know exactly where this is going.

"You know, lamented over the gleaming Firebolt she had in her shed and never got to -,"

"I've got the idea, Ron."

Ron laughs again, longer this time, at how clever he is. "Well, it wouldn't be the worst thing, would it? "

No, I suppose it isn't. And really, if she is upset over certain missed opportunities, it can only be a good thing.

"So she didn't say anything else?" A hint as to whether my declaration was the least bit welcome? I stare at Ron and look as pathetic as possible. Odds are he feels some loyalty to Hermione and an obligation to keep most of what she said to him confidential. It is admirable, really, and I expect nothing less from Ron. But that doesn't mean I don't want him to crack.

"Not really. Just vented her spleen for a few hours. Huffed a bit. Her usual, you know."

"You couldn't tell which way she was leaning?" I press.

Ron snorts. "I couldn't figure Hermione out at Hogwarts. Things have only got worse since."

I slump in my chair. There is no dissembling there. Every so often Ron has the odd flash of insight into Hermione, but most of the time she is like Greek to him. Their stint as a couple still stands as some of the darkest days in British history.

"She did ask me to make sure you stayed put, though." Ron says this casually, like he hasn't been saving it in his back pocket. I jerk upright and just refrain from flinging myself across the table and grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. I wonder if he knows how close he is to having the rest of what he knows shaken from him.

"She did?"

"I'm not sure why." Ron holds up both hands to fend off the questions he knows I am preparing to barrage him with. "And she didn't say when she'd want to see you or anything. Just that she doesn't want you doing something stupid like running off."

Ron is probably repeating Hermione word for word. It makes me smile.

"So," I say carefully, "do you think she might...return my feelings?" I don't expect Ron to know, not for certain. But he is my best friend and I am desperate to be convinced that I might have a shot. If anyone can send my hopes skyrocketing without presenting actual evidence it's him. Simple belief and the assurance of someone who cares can go a long way.

"I don't know, Harry. I told you I don't know what she thinks half the time." He stares into my pleading eyes and breathes loudly out his nose. "But I can't say for certain that she doesn't."

Not the blind encouragement I am hoping for, and definitely coerced, but still acceptable.

"She was set on murder when she showed up, I think. But after we talked, and she saw you weren't in any condition for anything, she calmed down. Even fixed your glasses for you before she left."

My hand goes up my glasses. "Hermione fixed them?" On any other day I would make fun of a man who was as pleased with a woman fixing his glasses as I am. But not today. Today it feels like a sign, small but significant.

Ron ignores the question and goes on in a reflective tone. "I've been thinking about this actually. Trying to look at this from Hermione's point of view. You know, from the inside out."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Ron shifts in his chair, making himself more comfortable. I'm not optimistic that Ron's conclusions will be sensible but, once again, I'm not actually concerned with sense right now.

Settled, Ron starts ticking points off on his fingers.

"Krum is a decent bloke, alright. He treats Hermione well, fits in with her friends." Ron looks at me for agreement and I nod reluctantly. "He loves her. He's had feelings for her for years so we know he's not a flash in the pan. He appreciates her, admires her intelligence. He puts up with her moods and..."

"Hey."

Ron rolls his eyes. "You know she has them, Harry. Where was I? Oh yeah. He has financial stability, owns his own flat, and gets along with her parents. Most important, he's asked her to marry him."

"You forgot to mention how amazing he is at Quidditch." I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I know Ron is trying to be helpful but listening to a list of a rival's good points will ruin a man's mood.

"Quidditch is irrelevant." Ron looks at me from beneath lowered brows. "Unless you want to bring up the subject of Hermione's access to your individual broomsticks."

"How old are you?"

"Same age as you. Right." Ron straightens his shoulders and goes back to ticking off his finger. "You're a good guy. You treat Hermione well and obviously get along with her friends. You love her. How long you've felt this way is indeterminate, making your durability questionable. You appreciate her and have no negative feelings about her intelligence."

"My feelings for Hermione are not questionable. And I admire her intelligence," I say, jumping to my own defense. "Without it I wouldn't be standing her. And you'd still be in Hogwarts."

Ron frowns at me but doesn't protest my unwarranted jab. Obviously weighing my words, he purses his lips and squints up at the ceiling.

"You have no negative feelings about her intelligence," he continues, sticking with his original opinion. "You put up with her moods and are independently wealthy but also hold a good job. You own your own place and get along with her parents. But," Ron raises a knowing finger, "you have not asked her to marry you."

I wait for Ron to continue, to give some clue about why he thinks Hermione might choose to be with me. But my hopes are in vain because he is apparently done. I raise my hands in an annoyed gesture and shake my head. "Based on that, Ron, Krum wins."

Ron makes a rude noise. "Krum doesn't win."

"Yes," I insist, "he does."

"No, he doesn't."

"Ron. You're looking at this from Hermione's point of view. You're the one picking Krum, not me." I'm irrationally angry as if this conversation has actually sealed my fate. Ron's opinion does not equal Hermione's. Just because one of my best friend's has inadvertently rejected me doesn't mean the other will.

"Where are you getting that?" If possible, Ron looks like he might be more annoyed with me than I am with him. He jabs a finger against the table. "Look, Harry. That stuff, most of it doesn't matter anyway. Think of it as the icing on the cake."

Icing on the cake? Who is using analogies now?

"Then what's the cake?"

"Hermione's feelings for you. You and Krum, I mean. All other things being relatively equal," Ron spreads his hands, "then the most important thing is how Hermione feels about you."

"But what about how long I've loved her? And Krum's already asked her to marry him. You're the one who brought this stuff up."

"Then if Hermione lets you, make sure you let her know how serious you are." He stares at me for a moment and then narrows his eyes. "You are serious aren't you?"

"Dead," I promise him. "I love her." I can't be any clearer then that.

"Then you tell her that. No sane woman leaves a man who wants to marry her for a tumble." Ron nods emphatically. "That's what mum says, anyway."

"Sounds like good advice."

"Then remember it." Ron leans across the table and pokes a finger into my sternum. "Make sure she knows you're not a flash in the pan."

"I will," I say while I rub at my sternum.

"Good." Ron clears his dishes off the table and walks them over to the sink. I watch him go and let out a long, shaky breath. My heart is racing with anticipation. After Ron's pep talk, suddenly things don't look so bleak.

If Hermione gives me the chance, and I have almost convinced that myself she will, then I have to go all in. I can't hold myself back in fear of rejection. No speaking in analogies or understating my feelings to avoid humiliation. It has to be all or nothing. My future hangs in the balance.

I take a moment to feel a momentary pang of guilt over Krum. Ron is right. He is a decent sort and doesn't deserve to have his heart broken. On the other hand, if Hermione really wants to be with Krum then she will be. My fervent desire for her to the contrary, I can't force her to be with me. It will take no effort at all to tell me to take a hike and remain safely engaged to the man she loves. If Krum is the love of her life then my pursuit of Hermione was over before it starts. But if he's not...

I am getting ahead of myself. I have no reason to believe my chances with Hermione are any better now than before I confessed my feelings. All this talk with Ron doesn't change the essential fact that she did not appear pleased by my declaration when I left her last night. She came to my flat with murder in her eyes, according to Ron. Not promising, but not unexpected either.

I bite back a sigh. I shouldn't have disapparated last night. If I had stayed instead of panicking things might be resolved by now. Or at least less muddled.

I drop my head back and stare up at the ceiling. Hermione told me to stay put. She wanted to make sure I wasn't leaving. We're going to talk about this. Everything will be out in the open. My stomach twists into slippery knots that are a mixture of fear and excitement. Resolution – for good or bad – is coming.

All I have to do now is wait for Hermione.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Here's the final chapter. This is actually the sixth(!) version I've written and while I'm still not quite happy this baby was due over a month ago and it's time to deliver (ha ha...er...um). As always, apologies for the typos and grammatical mistakes. Thanks for reading and thanks again to all who reviewed!

**Words Unread II – Chapter 3**

It has been two weeks since I last saw Hermione. Two weeks full of pacing, nail biting, and stomach aches. A man with more intelligence than myself would understand the message behind her complete absence in my life. A man with more sense would forget his hopeless love and force himself to move on. And a man with more dignity would never be standing outside her flat, mentally preparing himself to pound on her door and demand that she speak with him.

There are, of course, valid reasons why I shouldn't be here. An irate, curse-happy Bulgarian is a particularly good one. Further damaging one of the most important relationships in my life is another. And probably, I should add, the best reason for my not being here.

But my relationship, my friendship, with Hermione is also the best reason _to_ be here.

If it were just my doomed love for Hermione that was at stake perhaps I would have tried a bit harder to be sensible, or at the very least dignified. But I can't guarantee to myself that our sixteen year friendship will be preserved by ignoring what happened between us and hoping that time will heal all wounds. For the sake of that alone I will not allow her to ignore me until things don't feel awkward anymore. Considering what I said and how strongly I feel about her, that day may never come.

So, here I am, being proactive. It's possible I am also being stupid, but at least no one will be able to say that I let the woman I love slip away and allowed our friendship to disintegrate without putting up a fight. Not that anyone but Ron would think of saying such a thing, but he is reason enough.

Right. So here we go. Manfully, I square my shoulders and pound on Hermione's door with a clenched fist.

"Hermione! It's me, Harry. Open up!"

I announce myself with more authority and confidence than I am actually feeling. In truth my heart is pounding so hard I am surprised it doesn't hurt and my legs feel weak to the point I am afraid I will actually have to brace myself against the wall to support my own weight.

I close my eyes and listen as Hermione's footsteps, quick and even, sound a march toward the door. It is her all business walk, the one that announces to anyone who can see her that she is on a mission and not to be waylaid. Her arms will be straight and swing at her sides with each step, her chin tilted just slightly toward her chest, and a frown will be furrowing her brows.

Funny I can tell all that just by the sound of her footsteps.

The door opens without hesitation, surprising me a little, and then I see Hermione looking up at me from the shadowed hall. It's been just two weeks but the sight of Hermione sends a shock through my system, like I've wrapped my hand around an electric fence. I don't know why it should be this way, I have looked at her a thousand times since I realized I was in love with her and not felt quite this breathless. A little breathless, sure, but not like this. And it's not as if she is wearing anything particularly revealing to cause all this internal fuss. No, Hermione looks much as she normally does. She is dressed comfortably in a pair of chocolate brown corduroy paints and a pink polo shirt with her hair pulled back in a ponytail that is secured at the base of her neck. Wisps of brown curls stick out around her head, framing her face, and I imagine they bounced loose as she marched around her apartment this morning. My fingers twitch at my side and I wish I had the unspoken permission needed to reach out and touch.

Maybe it's different because I know I can lose her now. Or maybe it's because this is the first time we've been face to face since that night. My feelings have been revealed, I am an open book, and when Hermione looks at me she knows. It makes me feel as exposed as I have ever been and, despite my current uncertainty, it seems like a good thing. Either way, all I can think is that I would happily look just at Hermione for the rest of my life. As long as I didn't have to look at her being with another man, of course.

"Hi, Harry," she says, her voice careful. She looks me up and down with worried eyes and I fight the urge to fidget. "You haven't been drinking again, have you?"

"What?"

I look down to examine my appearance, slightly offended by her insinuation. Unfortunately there seems to be just cause for Hermione's assumption and I shift from being offended to more than a little horrified. Not that my haggard appearance is all my fault. In my own defense there was not a cloud in the sky when I woke up this morning. With warm sunlight flooding my windows, I considered it redundant to check the forecast. Unfortunately such neglect means I left the house without an umbrella and no longer resemble the well-groomed man I was just three hours and one thunderstorm ago. In fact, as with my last visit, I bear more than a passing resemblance to a beggar; my t-shirt is wrinkled and spotted with rain, my pants have a hole in the knee caused by a fall taken on the wet pavement, and my hair is plastered flat against my head and hangs in front of my eyes. Perhaps I should have done something about this.

Once again, in my haste to speak with Hermione I forgot that packaging is part of a well advertised product.

"I do look a fright, don't I?" Self-consciously I remove my glasses and run a hand through my hair to get it off my face. I don't bother trying to make it looks presentable, I don't have a mirror and such an attempt would be in vain anyway. I only hope it doesn't dry in some oddly winged shape while I am still within sight of Hermione. I flatten my hand against my head and hold it down for a count of three for good measure.

Hermione doesn't answer, probably assuming my question was rhetorical. "How did you know I was back in town?"

"Back in town?" I blink at her and shove my glasses back on my nose "I didn't know you were gone. Should I have?"

"No, probably not."

Definitely a stilted exchange. This is not going well, not that I entertained any expectations otherwise. We stare at each other and the moment is as uncomfortable as I have been dreading, though perhaps more so for me than Hermione. She seems collected, not angry or irritated, as she gazes at me in what I can only describe as a speculative way. Her eyes are direct and unfathomable and I would give all the money in my Gringott's vault to know what she is thinking.

Looking at her, I decide the direct approach I had settled on might not be wise.

"Where were you?" I hope a harmless conversation will combat the awkwardness. It has not escaped my notice that she has not invited me inside or given any indication that she is glad to see me.

She ignores my question and asks one of her own.

"What are you doing here, Harry?"

My mouth goes dry and I shrug. So much for the not direct approach.

"It's been two weeks since...well – you know." I can't bring myself to say it, not yet, not with her mood still so uncertain. "I haven't seen you since, Hermione. I thought you might be avoiding me. But I thought – I thought it was important that we talk." I swallow. "Just so there aren't any misunderstandings."

It's not exactly what I want to say. I want to ask her why she said she would come to see me but then didn't. I want to ask if my words had any effect on her whatsoever. I want to tell Hermione I have lived the last two weeks in absolute agony. That I have stared out my front window like some pathetically hopeful dog waiting for his owner – the individual who gives his life it's very meaning – to come home and put and end to his lonely misery. Not that I want to imply that my home is Hermione's home, or that I have been at all obsessive during these past two weeks. But some truths just can't be denied, even to one's self.

I watch Hermione for any type of reaction but, if anything, her expression become even more unreadable. After a slight hesitation she nods her head in a bracing sort of way. "You're right, we do need to talk." She steps back from the entryway and gestures me inside.

Despite the sense of foreboding that washes over me, I breathe a mental sigh of relief. At least she is barring me from the premises altogether.

After I step inside she leads me to the kitchen and pours me a glass of juice before disappearing down the hall. This feels like deja vu. Her footsteps echo away from me but her flat is otherwise silent and I know without having to ask that Krum is not here. The wave of relief is a physical sensation and I smile gratefully. For the moment there is one less thing to worry about.

When Hermione returns she has a fluffy bathroom towel in her hands. She gives it to me with a small smile and then goes to lean against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms beneath her chest and looking at my steadily. She looks menacing. Not on purpose, I'm sure. It's just that right now, standing inside her flat sandwiched between what I've already said and what needs to be said, everything about Hermione is intimidating.

Discomfited, I remove my glasses and wipe at my face until it is completely dry. Then I scrub at my hair, the back of my neck, my arms and hands. Every exposed bit of skin gets a thorough rub down. Then, just in case Hermione has any doubts about whether or not I'm stalling, I pick up my glass of juice and drink the entire contents without taking a breath.

The problem, of course, the sticking point, is that this is it. This is where I go for broke. There is a part of me, a rather large part, that wants to grovel at Hermione's feet, beg her forgiveness, and promise to forget this whole fiasco ever happened. It won't be how I truly feel, but it may just preserve our friendship. But it wouldn't be honest and I think Hermione – and I – deserve that.

Glass empty, I set it down and move stand on the other side of the table. I want to give Hermione her space, no sense crowding a woman who may or may not want you to be crowding her . She certainly looks wary enough and I wonder if she already knows what I am going to say. I wouldn't be surprised.

"I'm sorry, Hermione." They are the first words that come to mind, what I have been thinking and feeling for fourteen days. An apology for what I have said and what I will continue to say. "I put you in a very awkward position and I am _so_ sorry. I was drunk and -" I shake my head and stare at my feet, hoping I can find the right words.

"And you didn't mean it." Hermione's soft voice breaks into my thoughts.

I look up sharply at her words, as if a bee has stung my backside. I search her expression but as has been the case for most of my visit, Hermione's face is serene. Why did she have to pick now to become so enigmatic? It makes me want to punch and inanimate object.

Instead I decide to be more constructive with my time and take a moment to play her words over again in my mind, studying them, examining her tone of voice and inflection. I wish I had been looking up so I could have seen her face as she spoke. As it is, I can't decide if that is what she thinks I was going to say or if it is what she is suggesting I say, so we can better put this incident behind us.

Hermione seems to mistake my silent contemplation for agreement and sighs so quietly I almost don't hear it. Her head gives a tiny shake and she lifts her hand, like she is going to pinch the bridge of her nose, but changes her mind and grips the counter behind her with both hands instead.

"It's okay, Harry. I understand, you know," she says with a firm nod. "It was bound to happen."

Now that is interesting. I will be the first to admit that a lot of the things Hermione has ever said to me didn't make sense on the first go round. Though I pride myself on knowing such moments have come fewer and far between over the years, I am definitely in the middle of one now.

I take a step around the table and rest my hip against it. "What do you understand?" I ask, sure that whatever it is, it isn't what I understand.

"You were drunk. It was reasonable that -" Hermione trails off and her eyes dart to the floor and then back to me. She takes a steadying breath and when she speaks again her voice is firmer, like she has more confidence in what she is saying. "Alcohol is a depressant, Harry. With Ron and I both getting married and you breaking up with Ginny..." Hermione shrugs and smiles with gentle sympathy. "Something like this was a definite possibility."

My mouth opens and closes without sound. Well that certainly answers one question. She definitely thinks I didn't mean it. Does this mean there's the possibility she wishes I had? The thought makes me giddy. I push away from the table and take another step toward her, trying not to let myself hope too much.

"So it was a case of what? Poor, drunk Harry? Pathetic, lonely Harry?"

My words sound harsh but there's no rancor in my voice. I need the full picture, not prevarications and half-truths meant to spare my feelings. I only want to know what misconceptions I'm dealing with. Hermione, though, manages to look defensive.

"There's nothing 'just' about it, Harry. I'm not trying to marginalize your feelings."

"I know that," I assure her. I take another step toward her and run a hand through my damp hair. Here we go. "Is that...is that how you want things to be?"

Hermione straightens and she looks so suddenly vulnerable that I want nothing more than to take her in my arms. Two more steps is all it would take to close the distance between us, but I don't want to push her. By the time I decide touching Hermione now would be a bad idea she has brought her expression back to one of passive observation.

"Are you saying I'm wrong?" she challenges, suddenly lifting her chin.

"Hermione." I shake my head. "I broke up with Ginny months ago. And, if I'm honest, we'd been growing apart for a lot longer than that." I decide to take another step forward and wait for her to flinch or, worse, bolt. She doesn't move but she doesn't fully meet my eyes either. Her gaze jumps between mine and a point somewhere beyond my left shoulder. I clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching out and cupping her chin, forcing her to look at me.

"Ginny is not my problem, Hermione. And neither is Ron."

She doesn't ask me who is, she just stares past my shoulder with eyes as large and round as snitches. At any other time I might believe her avoiding my gaze was her way of silently pleading with me to not say anything more. And maybe that is exactly what she wants. But thirty seconds ago I saw a chink in her armor, I saw a look that said she is afraid to hope I care the way I said I do.

And that's enough for me.

"I meant what I said, Hermione. I'm sorry I was drunk, I wish I hadn't been, and maybe I'm too late but -" I shake my head again. "The only thing that brought me to your door that night was you. I love you, Hermione. And this might be the last thing you want to hear, but it was now or never, you know? I spent years fighting how I felt. Because of our friendship, because of Ginny, because of Krum, because I was afraid. I'm can't fight it anymore. I don't want to."

I stop, feeling out of breath and light headed, and stare in nervous silence at a Hermione who looks like a statue. She begins to blink furiously and suddenly I notice tears wetting her eyes. Are those happy tears? Sad ones? I can't tell and her silence is killing me. I don't know what else I need to say to get her to say something, be it good or bad.

I open my mouth to say something when Hermione interrupts me.

"You meant it?" She grabs my wrist and yanks me toward her, erasing the distance that remains between us. Her eyes search my face. "You really meant it? You love me?"

The cautious hope in her voice makes my heart race.

"Yes, Hermione. Of course I meant it."

Hermione launches herself against me, wrapping her arms around my waist. Caught off guard I stumble backward but regain my balance after two quick steps and return her embrace. For a moment all I can feel is shock. Does this mean what I think it means? Am I really this lucky? I stare without blinking at the cupboards behind Hermione's head and have to shake myself when I realize she is speaking.

"Oh, Harry," she says, breathless with emotion. "I love you, too. I've loved you for so long it's almost embarrassing to admit it. But I never thought you could feel the same. To know that you do..." she swallows hard and laughs, "to know that you do is the best feeling I've ever had."

"I know what you mean." And I do. I look down into Hermione's laughing, tear streaked face and I smile so wide my face should probably hurt. I think I could dance a jig. Maybe bounce around the kitchen belting a soaring show tune at the top of my lungs. Does that seem ridiculous? Probably to most people, but not to me. Not right now. I feel giddy, bursting with excitement and the desire to just do something, anything to release the overpowering rush of adrenaline that is making my hands shake. I want to run to the window, throw it open, and yell to the street below that Hermione Granger loves me. I want to bar all the doors, pull the telephone from the wall, board up the fireplace, and spend a few days, weeks, or months alone with Hermione. But, most of all, I want to kiss her. I am fairly certain I have never wanted anything so much in my entire life. I look down at her lips and know instinctively that hers will be the softest I have ever touched. And even though I want to get to that touching immediately, something is holding me back. The last, fairly significant, road block to spending the rest of my life with this woman.

Not that I want to bring Krum into the conversation. Not only is his name a bit of a mood killer but there's also the not inconsiderable amount of guilt I feel where he is concerned. Enrollment at Durmstrang to the contrary, all the guy's ever done is care about Hermione and I'm definitely the last man on earth who can fault him for that. Why couldn't Hermione have been dating someone like Malfoy?

I shudder involuntarily. Never mind that thought.

"What about Krum?" I ask, returning to the subject at hand. I have no idea how Hermione will react to my bringing him up so I voice the question as gently as I can.

But Hermione doesn't seem fazed by the mention of her fiancé. In fact, besides the blink and you miss it appearance of a slightly nostalgic smile, her face doesn't change at all.

"Actually," she says, her head tilting to one side, "I've sort of spoken with Viktor already."

"What?" This is not what I was expecting.

Hermione laughs at the look on my face and her amusement sends a puff of air across my cheek. The sensation, the reminder that she is close enough that I can feel her breath on my skin, sends a jolt of pleasure down my spine and a jolt of excitement somewhere else entirely. I'm more than half tempted to kiss her and end the conversation about Krum immediately. But we do need to talk about him. Thankfully, extensive practice at controlling myself around Hermione makes it possible for me to curb my baser impulse. For the time being.

"The day after you showed up..." Hermione shakes her head. "I had a lot of thinking to do, obviously. That's why I didn't come visit you immediately. I'd planned on it, but after a night spent pacing my bedroom I knew I needed more time to wrap my head around a few things. I'm sorry," she gives me a small squeeze, "I should have let you know."

"It's okay," I assure her. "You had a lot on your mind, no thanks to me."

Hermione levels me with a look that says I'm an idiot. "I'm glad you said something, Harry. You have no idea how glad."

She squeezes me again and this time it feels possessive. I smile and think I probably have a very good idea of just how glad she is. And if she is even half as happy as I am at this moment, she is very pleased indeed.

"Anyway," she continues, "I went to visit my parents for a few days. We talked, they helped me to see a few things. And then I traveled to Bulgaria. I was there until last night."

Ah. "So, what happened?"

Hermione arm slides from around my waist and she holds up her left hand and wiggles her bare ring finger. I grab her wrist and bring the newly unadorned hand to my face so I can be properly stupefied.

"So...you're no longer engaged." I can't keep the emotion out of my voice. Gently I rub my thumb back and forth across her palm, unable to let the opportunity to caress some part of her body pass. Hermione's fingers curl reflexively and I press a soft kiss against her knuckles. The part of my mind occupied by guilt over Krum whispers I am getting what I want too easily. The rest of my mind says I can feel properly guilty later, preferably when Hermione is not standing in my arms.

"What made you decide..." I let my voice trail off, worried that question might be considered prying.

"Well, you know I didn't take you seriously but..." Hermione shakes her head and smiles with shy embarrassment. "I knew from how much I _wanted_ you to mean it that I wasn't being fair to Viktor." Hermione shrugs and leans against me, pressing her cheek into my shoulder. "I went to Bulgaria and we...we talked about it. About our feelings, that is. We decided that we care about each other, very much, but we deserve more. Want more for each other and ourselves."

Hermione is silent a moment.

"Does that make sense?"

Perfect sense. I nod and marvel at their maturity. I don't know if I would have been able to let go of Hermione so quickly and it makes me feel the tiniest bit ashamed. "I'm sorry, Hermione. It must have been difficult for you."

"It was," Hermione agrees, her voice is muffled against the fabric of my shirt and the feel of her lips moving against me is captivating. "But it was the right thing to do. And necessary, really. We both just want the other to be happy."

"Viktor's a good man." And I thank Merlin for it.

"He is." Hermione breathes a deep sigh then chuckles softly. "He knew I was talking about you."

"What?"

Hermione leans away from me but her hands remain around my waist. In fact, her fingers begin to play nervously with one of my belt loops. I decide not to bring attention to it in case mentioning it makes her stop.

"Viktor knew you were part of the reason for my impromptu visit. Our conversation started out with broad, hypothetical scenarios but it got specific quick enough. He said he knew the second I arrived that I was having second thoughts. And then he said he knew why."

"He knew I visited you?" Had my feelings for Hermione been so transparent?

"No. He told me he knew that if I was having second thoughts they would be because of my feelings for you."

Her feelings for me. I can't get over it and can tell it's going to take a long time for that particular truth to finally sink in.

"Poor Viktor," I murmur. "He's known it all along, then."

Hermione looks at me with a furrowed brow. "What do you mean?"

That's right. For some reason I never thought to tell her about that particular conversation. I wonder why not.

"Remember when you two were seeing each other during the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Of course."

"Well, I never told you this," I hesitate, not sure whether I should feel bad about not spilling this years ago, "but he confronted me about you."

"What?" Hermione looks slightly dumbfounded.

"Yeah. It was right after we learned about the third task, when we found Barty Crouch in the forest. Do you remember?"

"Vaguely."

"Right before we found Crouch, Viktor told me he wanted to speak with me privately." I smile at the memory, at how shocked I was to learn he thought of me as true competition for something. "He pulled me off the beaten path and demanded to know what was going on between us."

"He did not." Hermione looks slightly horrified.

"He did." My smile turns smug, I can't help it. "He told me you couldn't stop talking about me."

Hermione blushes, looking adorable in the process. Once again the urge to kiss her is nearly overpowering. I don't, but my rapidly dwindling tank of reserve is almost empty. To compensate I begin trailing my hands lightly along her back.

"Of course I talked about you all the time," she sniffs after a moment's distracted hesitation. "We were friends."

"That's exactly what I told _him_." I wait a beat. "I never did find out if he was worried about your friendship with Ron, though. You don't suppose Viktor confronted him too, do you?"

Hermione swats me playfully on the arm and laughs through obvious embarrassment. "Fine, be that way. I'll admit it, I did like you then. More than I should have considering you had a definite type."

While part of me has suspected for some time that Hermione may have liked me back at Hogwarts, I don't like having it confirmed. It makes me feel like an idiot, a first class jerk who doesn't deserve his current good fortune. The thought of Hermione wishing she could be with me while I was off chasing Cho and Ginny actually makes me hurt.

"I was a blind bastard -"

"Harry!" Hermione puts her fingers across my lips and fights a smile. "Stop it. You're being too hard on yourself. Let's not worry about the past. Instead we can just both agree that you've become a much wiser man."

"Okay." I lean forward and brush my lips against Hermione's. "Thank you," I whisper.

"For what?"

"For being in my life. For saving it over and over again. And for being my friend. Loving me." I unwrap my arms from around Hermione's waist and clasp both of her hands in mine, linking our fingers. "And, most importantly, for staying unmarried just long enough for me to get it together."

"If you're thanking me for all that, then I should be thanking you, too."

I shake my head. Hermione doesn't need to thank me for anything, and it's high time I showed her some appreciation for everything she's been to me. For me.

"I know it will probably take some time for you to get over Viktor but I thought you should know, Ron told me no sane woman leaves another man for a tumble."

Hermione searches my eyes and smiles in confusion. "Really? And what does that mean, exactly?"

I sigh, like I am making a big sacrifice while inside I am terrified of freaking her out. Oh well. I have to say it.

"It means that in order to do the honorable thing and protect your sanity, I'll have to marry you."

Hermione doesn't freak out, she doesn't even speak. Instead her smile widens and I swear her eyes darken and seem suddenly softer.

Finally, she tilts her head to one side and asks, "Is that so?"

I nod.

"My sanity is very grateful." Hermione grips my hands tightly and rises to her tiptoes, kissing me once then twice. Her lips are so soft and when she tugs gently on my bottom lip I think my heart is going to explode. She starts to pull away but I follow her retreat, cradling her chin with one hand while wrapping my other arm around her waist to keep her body flush against mine. Hermione makes a sound deep in her throat and clutches at the back of my neck.

How long we continue like this I have no idea. And I don't care. Time is made meaningless by the feel of her skin beneath my hands, obliterated by the scorching heat of her lips. I am too caught up in the joy of living this moment and discovering that the reality of being able to be like _this _with Hermione is better than any daydream I've ever had. There is no possible way I will ever get enough.

When I do pull back, my breathing rough and uneven, I am assailed by doubt. Hermione looks...well...like she's been attacked. Her cheeks are flushed and pink, her lips are swollen, and her hair has been pulled loose of her ponytail. Ten minutes ago didn't I intend to be considerate of her break up with Krum? Am I nothing but a beast? Sure, Hermione seemed to enjoy it, but hadn't she started to pull away before I attacked her?

Shame battles my arousal but I am only too certain which will win in the long run. I am a beast. Perhaps sweet, mostly chaste kisses are all we should allow ourselves for the time being. Hermione will have to set the boundaries, I decide. I obviously can't be trusted.

Some of what I am thinking must show on my face because Hermione gives me a reassuring, well-pleased smile. The foot of distance between us is instantly closed and her body is molding itself to mine once again. My ragged breathing stops altogether.

"If I recall," she says, her lips only a breath from mine, "last time you were here you mentioned something about reading a book."

Oh, yes, I will be very happy to let Hermione dictate where we go from here. I scrunch my forehead and pretend to think. "Did I?"

"You did," Hermione assures me.

"Funny, I don't recall."

She slides her hands around my waist, dipping beneath my shirt to glide her fingers along my bare skin. "Lucky for you I remember it rather distinctly."

"Was it a specific book, then?"

"Quite. You said something about getting a look at all those pages you'd never seen before."

"Ah. That actually rings a bell." I am surprised I still have the power of speech. Heck, I am surprised I haven't passed out.

"Unless, of course, you'd like to change your mind?"

"Oh, definitely not." I assure her. I grab Hermione's waist, settle her on the kitchen counter and step between her knees. "In fact, I think I should get started right now." I lean toward her. "And I'm not going to stop until I've read every last word."

I close the distance between our lips, marvel at the feel of her hand sliding through my hair, and kiss her again.


End file.
